June 2013

Sad news about James Gandolfini. Being a man of a certain age, I watched the Sopranos from the pilot. The cast was perfect, the script faultless – which is pretty astonishing given that there was a rolling team of writers rather than a constant stream from the same person or partnership. If you are unfamiliar with it, get the box set, start at the beginning and you’ll soon be making excuses not to go out in the evening so you can watch it. And don’t be put off by the mob thing: like all the best drama, it’s about people, love, hope, death, family, weakness and all that.

As someone pointed out on Twitter, to make a murderous, cruel, adulterer relatable and even loveable was some achievement. And what a rare thing that we knew so much about the make up of Tony Soprano and so little about James Gandolfini.

It was a series full of majestic swears, that changed tv and the reality it could show. If you’re in the mood for a swearfest, here is a very small selection.

I love a good swear. Years ago, working as a kitchen porter, mornings would be broken once a week by the arrival of the foulmouthed man collecting the food waste. He went by the name of Sid Swill. Looking into his glasses was like having one of those seaside tourist telescopes on each eye. He could eff and jeff as well as anyone I’ve heard. ‘Get that lazy c*&ting shithouse out of the bastard kitchen to give you a hand with this filthy bollocks will you…what’s the matter with him, too busy with his hand found that tiny c*&k of his to give you a hand is he? Idle c&@t’, was a not-atypical rejoiner of a summer’s morn.

He was outdone only once at that place of work, by the lone visit of a repairman, come to fix the boiler. “I knows what’s c*#ting up with it”, he announced, after a few silent hours with his head hidden underneath the broken thing…”the f*#kin, f*?kers f*#ked”. The manager of the place, a man not entirely unfamiliar with the coarser side of life, pulled quite possibly the only James Finlayson face he ever pulled, before finding a short “Thanks, I guess that means we’d better buy a f+#king new one then…”.

16 tons of compost arrived last week, driven by a very chirpy chap, more than happy to back the enormity of his lorry in through a narrow field entrance and then at an angle, downhill, to unload the cargo in the perfect spot for me. Just before he pressed the button that lifted the front of the lorry’s back to decant that vast pile of compost he leaned over and said ‘bastard cold this morning innum’ ‘yes, jolly er bastard cold it is too’, I replied. I realise now that his ‘bastard’ was a water-tester: I swore back, effectively giving permission for more. His ‘bastard’ was swearing as politeness, to see if swearing was acceptable. He was giving me the metaphorical glad eye before going in for a snog. Released from his verbal shackles, he followed up with “says 16 tons on the order but c&@t that I am I f&@king loaded 16.2 on dint oi…must’ve been too busy thinking about fanny eh. Still, call me a c*#k but I wont about to unload the f&@king c*&t was I”.

Quite.

So now I have the pleasure of moving 16.2 f&@king tons of compost from this huge pile onto the veg patch, some raised beds, into the garden and into the forest garden, which I expect to be bastard knackering.

I shall console myself with a piece of lavender and walnut fudge, the recipe for which seems to have too much cream in it, judging by its gentle tilt. I shall retest and post it at some point. It is a very fine combination…and I’m someone who comes over all ‘pot pourri face’ at things like lavender in their food.